The True Story Of How I Met Your Daddy

My hand shakes as I write this, but I have to get it down. It's the last thing I'll be doing in this life. I want you to know who your real parents are, and the real story behind them. I love you, my baby boy.


1. Before


It all started when I was just 19 years old. I didn't have a single qualification to my name, but I did have my sister's ID with me, which I'd stolen off her. I'd used it a lot, including that one eventful night in 1980. I'd used it for the 6th time that night, and I was having trouble seeing straight. I had a paper cup full of vodka and ribena in my hand, and I was staggering across the dancefloor to get out, when I slipped over and landed straight in the arms of a fellow clubber.

"Oh Jesus, I'm so so sorry. I'll leave you alone now if you want me to." I apologise. If you haven't guessed by now, I'm really, really drunk.

"Don't worry about it. All you did was fall on me." He replies, holding me up. "Everybody makes mistakes, Miss Campbell."

"I'm nowhere near pretty enough to be Naomi. I'm just plain-old Wilhemina-Jean." I go slightly pink under my sister's stolen foundation. Not just at my stupidly posh name, but because he thinks I look like Naomi Campbell.

"Well, may I buy you something to drink?" The guy asks. He is SO hitting on me, and to be honest, he is very good-looking. Reminds me a bit of that Egyptian Pharaoh with the huge sun-temple thing. Ramasses, or something like that. I should really say no, as I'm one shot-glass of vodka away from passing out, but he's so nice, and I don't want to seem rude or ungrateful. So I accept.

3 glasses of white wine each later, and I am this close to passing out. He's drunk too, and we've been talking together for ages now. He's in the music industry, but for the love of God, I can't remember what it is he exactly does. I think he plays some instrument, or vocals.

"So, what about you? What is it that you do?" He asks, with his arm around my waist. I'm really embarassed now. He wouldn't be interested in a 19-year-old, drunk, high-school dropout who's having trouble paying rent.

"Oh, not much at the moment. I'm just hanging around, figuring out what's next for me. You know how it is." I wasn't exactly lying, just not giving him the whole picture. If he's anything like what I'm like after a night of getting drunk, he won't be able to remember a thing anyway.

"I've never had to worry about that. All I've ever needed to worry about, was coming up with enough songs for an album, before a certain date."

"Lucky old you. I'm worrying about all sorts of things right now. Like how I'm gonna manage to pay this month's rent, or if I can get a job that will pay me enough. Or if I will ever get into college without a high-school degree." All my worries come shooting out, like I have no control over my lipstick-coated mouth anymore.

"Well from now on, you're not to go worrying about a thing. Someone as pretty as you are can easily become a star. You'd knock all those beauty queens and actresses straight off the silver screen." He turns me to face him, and then kisses me, and I know that he's being serious. I don't have to worry about a thing anymore.

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